A night at PA's

For those of you who have never been to PA's Lounge in Union Square in Somerville, let me tell you that if there ever were a nexus of two universes colliding, it would be PA’s. It’s a small venue with a stage on one side. It used to consist of two rooms. One, the bar, where all the townies hung out, drinking their PBR and Bud Light, and watching the History Channel. Two, the music hall which resembled the basement of a JCC, where the indie/alt rockers would hang out, also drinking PBR and Bud Light, and listening to loud, loud music.

At some point, in the recent past, the genius owners at PA’s thought that it would be a good idea to take the wall down that separated the two rooms. There is no longer a wall between them, meaning now the townies and the rockers mingle amongst each other. It’s madness. Musicians being heckled by townies who can’t hear Pawn Stars over the music.

My first experience since the wall came down at PA’s was on Saturday night. I went to see two of my friends’ bands play, Sinnet and J/Q. Both good, and you should check them out sometime. But, what I want to discuss is what happened before the show.

A mix up with the times resulted in my arriving early (already awkward in itself as I've mentioned before). I decided to order a drink and hang out at the bar. I had made the mistake of wearing heels, meaning when I walked in and across the floor, all eyes were on me. The clientele consisted of 8 or 9 men who had clearly been drinking the day away, and one woman who seemed perturbed that competition had just walked through the door. I tried to tell her not to worry with my eyes.

As I walked up to the bar, a man who was probably in his 40’s but looked much older, said to me, “Hi there! Are you staying??” I didn’t really understand the question. So, I said, “I think so.” And he said, “I’m Juno” and shook my hand. I told him my name. Then, he asked, “Do you sing any SHA-day?” I looked at him blankly. He said, “You know…[singing] Smooooooth Operator”. Again, I didn’t understand the question, so I smiled and walked to the other side of the bar. (I found myself humming Sade many times on Sunday and cursed Juno every time.)

I sat down next to this guy who looked harmless enough. He was even kind of cute, probably in his early 30’s. He glanced up from his texting and looked at me as I sat down. After a few minutes, he turned to me, and said, “Excuse me, I’m a horrible speller. Do you know how to spell ‘tongue’?”

I was a little weirded out by the fact that I was helping him sext, but when he started spelling it “tou…”, I couldn’t help myself. Those of you who know me personally know that I have an incessant need to be right…ALL the time. “T-O-N-G-U-E”, I told him. He typed it in and looked at it for a moment. “That can’t be right,” he said.

“Trust me, it’s right,” I said. (There’s that incessant need again.) I continued, “I was a champion speller in elementary school. I won both fourth and sixth grade.”

“They have spelling competitions?”

“Yes”, I responded, “they’re called spelling bees.”

He sized me up for a moment and said, “Spell ecclesiastic.”

“E-C-C-L-E-S-I-A-S-T-I-C”

“I’m guessing that’s right,” he said. “Spell onomatopoeia.”

He had to ask me to spell onomatopoeia. That is the one word that, for some reason, I can NEVER remember how to spell. As I was writing this, I needed spell check. And after spelling it wrong a second time, I copied it, so I can just paste it in from here on out.

“I can’t spell onomatopoeia. I never could.”

He looked at me, triumphantly. (Here comes the need again…) “Do you know what onomatopoeia means?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s when a word is spelled like the sound it makes. Like ‘oink’”.

Who was this guy??? He didn’t know how to spell tongue, yet he knew what onomatopoeia meant? I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. Apparently, the feeling was mutual, because the next words out of his mouth were, “WHY are you here??”

“I’m here to see my friends’ bands play,” I told him.

“Oh, there are bands here tonight?” And, without another word, he got up and walked out the door.

So, yes, for the rest of the night, I pretended that the PA’s wall was still up, and I stayed on my side, the rocker’s side. Today, I’m echoing the plea of indie rockers everywhere, “Mr. PA’s Lounge Owner, close this gate! Mr. PA’s Lounge Owner, Put Up This Wall!”